The purge WH40K
by Mattwho81
Summary: Following on from the Siege of Terra, this story explores the dark aftermath of the Horus Heresy.


_+++Enemy at the Gates+++_

_High above the terminus of a ravaged world hung a fleet dedicated to war and carnage, an armada that had sold its soul for power and gain. At their heart lay a mighty space-fort, dwarfing even the largest vessel it had once stood vigil over the peoples of this devastated planet. Among its towering spires and bulging shield generators were brutal scars and the pockmarks left behind by boarding torpedoes covered it like a deadly pox. Once it had born proud Aquillas and pennants dedicating its service to humanity yet now it bore the hallmarks of treachery and betrayal for the Traitor Legions had come and made it their own._

_Deep within the mighty fortress lay an immense launch bay and here the Plague Marines had placed a battalion of Astartes on ready stand by, fully five hundred diseased parodies of the Death Guard fully armoured and ready to board their Stormbirds at a moments notice. Across the decks ran slaves and twisted Adepts of the Dark Mechanicus, shouting and bellowing in the din as they connected fuel pumps and loaded munitions. Outside the crackling barrier of the atmosphere shield could be seen the fleet of mighty battleships, each a leviathan of power and wrath. Dozens of vessels stood ready to defend the station but all knew this was a token gesture, Loyalist forces had been detected translating in-system and all knew when they got here it would be the Plague Marines who won the day. In the months since the retreat from Terra they had fought across a dozen worlds, bringing woe and despair to all they encountered and not once had they met their match. The pain and suffering had greatly pleased the powers of the Warp and they had been lavish in their blessings. Mighty champions strode the deck, each a bloated and disgusting testament to the favour of the Warp, elevated to such heights they knew only victory and they were eager to launch forth once more._

_But it was not to the stars they should have looked, for above them hung a new threat, high above the bay lurking in the rafters waited a force determined to challenge their superiority. Not a grunt of effort, not a gasp of labour, not a crackle from a vox, not a clink from an uncased weapon betrayed their presence. Only the crisp scent of ice forming along their black armour betrayed their entry route, the very air freezing in contact with their void-cooled surfaces. Only a grey smudged symbol of a proud avian gave away their identity, the Raven Guard had come seeking vengeance. More and more came down into the bay moving hand over hand, gripping struts with their knees and inching into position. There was nothing awkward or hesitant about their movements instead they flowed like fluid, something dark and glossy like blood. It seemed more than they simply held to the shadows; it was like the very darkness embraced them, as if it was part of their very nature. Had any observed their presence they would have held there breathe waiting for the intruders to draw their weapons, but they did not. Instead suddenly and without needing any command they simply let go and fell into the bay. _

_Each Raven Guard was precisely positioned and the first the Plague Marines knew of the attack was when fifty warriors in ceramite fell upon their heads. Most went for the neck with open hands, the Ravens gripping the target's heads and using the momentum of the fall to twist and snap their spines. The first audible sign of the fight was the sound of fifty Plague Marines dying, necks popping like firecrackers, like knuckles cracking. The Ravens rolled in fluid motions back to their feet but now they were holding weapons, their enemy's weapons. Each dead Traitor had been specifically targeted for one reason: the Plague Marines had entrusted them to carry Melta guns and now the Ravens were armed and in their midst. The guns suddenly fired blasts of subatomic fusion energy into the densely packed Plague Marines, punching through power armour with horrifying ease and liquefying the organs and viscera into steam. Traitor Astartes were blown back, falling into each other and over the mangled remains of their dead kin. It was almost pathetic, the Plague Marines were feared across the galaxy their very name a curse on the lips of men yet the Raven were cutting through them with ease. A hundred Astartes had died in a blink of an eye and not a single one of their brethren had managed to fire a return shot, not a single one. _

_Ten seconds into the fight the Plague Marines managed to fire their first shot, followed by a hail of bolter rounds. Fifteen seconds into the fight the Raven Guard took their first casualty, a black clad warrior took a round under the arm and it detonated tearing his hearts apart. A few more seconds would have seen the Plague Marines cut down the Ravens but they did not have that luxury, for the rest of the their force dropped into the fight. Two hundred more Astartes crashed into the enemy ranks, tearing and gouging at the foe, these held no guns nor blades instead massive claws and grotesquely over developed fists simply tore through breastplates and pauldrons. Armed for a ranged fight the Plague Marines lost another hundred of their number before they could even react. _

_With the bestial monsters snapping at their heels the few scattered Plague Marines fell back into small groups, each led by a towering and bloated champion and at last the loyalists faced a real challenge. Huge hammers and maces were swung in looping arcs and midnight clad bodies were hurled flying with every impact. The battle's outcome was already certain but the Plague Marines might yet reap a fearful tally in defeat. And then he came, a giant blur of shadow and darkness slammed into the largest knot of Traitors knocking them flying, a roar born from the pain of betrayal and rage heralding the arrival of Corax. A score of Traitors died in Corax's first charge, his fury incandescent and his power unstoppable. Clad in a suit of finest armour and armed with a pair of lightning claws that clove warriors in two, his need for vengeance burning so hot it would tear his hearts out. Every Plague Marine threw himself at him, exposing their flanks for the chance to kill a Primarch, but Corax moved like quicksilver. In a blur of fury he moved faster than the eye could follow, tearing and shattering all resistance, he slashed and hacked and sliced at the wall of bodies until the very air was red with spilled blood. Fury exploded in his hearts driving him onwards never letting him stop; his rage burnt in his limbs, smiting down the betrayers in droves. At last one lone Champion of Chaos stood before Corax, swinging a great mace around he smashed one of the bestial Ravens into the Primarch, pinning his right arm for a split second. Seizing his one moment of opportunity he charged at the Primarch, Corax simply raised his other hand and caught the mace by the head, a force that would have shattered ceramite stopped with nought but a palm. The Traitor was shocked into stillness and was still gasping disbelief when Corax rose and took his head off._

_The last Plague Marine fell to the deck amid the ruins of his brothers, his death heralded by the wailing of alarms. In moments the hatches opened and waves of cultist hordes raced to engage the intruders, but they found only mysteries. _

_For the Raven Guard were already gone._

**The Purge**

**Holocaust**

In the wake of the Horus Heresy mankind was left reeling, war had devastated countless worlds and left nought but ashes behind. The armies of man were crippled and weak, the population starving but worst of all the Emperor was bound forever into the Golden Throne his wisdom and benevolence lost. The few scattered survivors turned on each other, old enmities long suppressed by the Emperor's Legions surging forth once more. Under the shadow of glorious monuments to victory and towering repositories of learning men killed each other for mouthfuls of bread and sips of water. Gleaming cities burned and with no one left to maintain them most machines rusted away to nothing, machined tools were used as clubs and workshops as shelters from the rain. All the precious knowledge gathered during the Great Crusade was torn up and used in the struggle to survive. Libraries and archives were looted for firewood and all the technological achievements of a thousand generations were torn down in the anarchy. The only technology that proved resilient enough to survive the carnage were fragments of STC designs, saved by far-sight individuals desperate to preserve even the tiniest part of the power humanity once wielded. Amongst the ranks of the army the rot found true purchase previous comrades in arms waged war upon one another, claiming pocket empires wherever they could. Some fought over territory, supplies and rations but others fought over nothing more than imagined slights and ancient grudges. Those who should have been leading humanity in this dark hour were at each other's throats. On Terra itself a new wave of madness arose, fanatical cults gathering together amongst the billions of refugees sheltering under the walls of the Imperial Palace. Demagogues and preachers urged the people to embrace faith in the God-Emperor as the path to salvation, only through supreme sacrifice could they draw his attention and make him stand up from the Golden Throne to lead men once more. Under their cruel lash they competed to outdo each other in mad acts of devotion, lashing and flagellating themselves for days on end. Men whipped themselves until their backs bled and plunged their hands into naked flames as tests of devotion, they cut out their tongues and gouged out their eyes in an attempt to make the Emperor return but he still said nothing. Convinced that only greater acts of sacrifice would stir the Emperor the cults turned on those would not listen, dragging them from their beds and burning them in mass pyres. Fearful and desperate the people surged to join the cults swelling them to millions, and then they turned on each other. Madness spread through the streets as gangs of cultists hacked and stabbed with crude knives and spears each more determined to prove that they alone knew the Emperor's will.

From out of the darkness came a new threat, Xeno races thought long extinct returned from the shadows of wilderness space and sought vengeance upon the Imperium that had driven them out. They fell upon the helpless worlds of men and unleashed suffering that eclipsed the worst atrocities of the Horus Heresy. Orks and Hrud, Demiurg, Fra'al, Knib, Taiidani, Laer, Quietude, Talestrians, Eldar, Jorgall, Nephilim and some foes too terrible to name all returned and revelled in the carnage. In desperation the people called out to the few surviving loyalist Primarchs to bring their mighty Legions to save them as in days of old. Yet the brothers hardened their hearts and turned their faces away, they were obsessed with reckoning with their traitor kin, blind to all else but vengeance. From Terra they chased the Traitor Legions into the galactic north, never ceasing their pursuit, leaving the weak and helpless to die uncared for in their wake. It seemed that mankind's last hour had truly come, that the new day of enlightenment had ended and all that was left to huddle around the last flickering firelights as the night fell upon them. Brother fought brother and friend fought friend as all around swarms of Xeno laughed at the folly of man. Despair and violence spread like a virus infecting all with its taint, the madness was in the air, it was everywhere. Yet even now some held that humanity, the great species that had risen from the ashes of its own extinction, could yet fight this new enemy. A valiant band of brothers who gazed upon a galaxy of death and horror yet knew no fear: they were the Ultramarines.

The last viable fighting force left in the galaxy.

**Ultramar Endures**

From his mighty fortress on Macragge the Primarch Roboute Guilliman gazed out on the war torn Imperium and knew the galaxy was already lost: he vowed to take it back. Yet he knew that no single attack could change the course of the war, humanity was beset by a thousand different foes, there was no central leadership to target, no head to cut off the beast. Instead Guilliman embraced the unthinkable and split his legion into a hundred different splinters, sending each out to rescue key worlds from the darkness. To guide them without his presence he gifted them with his new philosophy on tactics and warfare, his epic masterpiece the Codex Astartes. The Space Marines had never bothered with such tactics before; since their inception their campaigns had always been based on pride and genetic superiority. Simply charging through their enemy's strongest bastions and daring them to even try to stand against the storm. That had to change and the new philosophy was war unlike any the Astartes had ever fought before, using co-ordination and strategy to turn a small yet diverse force into a power beyond the sum of its parts. If Guilliman was conservative in his selection of assets he was calculating in their disposal. Not for him the futile stand against unconquerable odds or bloody victory to no purpose. If a position could not be held Guilliman commanded his Marines to fall back to better ones, if a fortress could not be taken he simply bypassed it. He knew when to stand, when to withdraw and when to strike with every weapon at his command. Armed with the new philosophy and unprecedented levels of autonomy the Ultramarines commanders set out into the galaxy.

On countless worlds the XIIIth Legion fell upon their foes, lightning blitzkriegs assaults that toe out the heart of the foes. At the Higgara point they saved the armies of the Vostroyans from an overwhelming Ork Waaagh, on Kallax they gutted the manufactories of the Dark Mechanicum. The pirate princes of the Eldar were smashed between the hammer of the Astartes Battlebarges and the anvil of Battlefleet solar, the captured Domjons of Perimunda were torn down in a single night of furious assault. Amongst the stars of the Hyliopolis Arc the Pharaoh-Slaves were captured and executed in a stealth infiltration led by the Ultramarines Captain Aethon. Their last sight being the mysterious monoliths they worshipped destroyed by melta bombs and the supposedly invincible metal-men of their armies simply phasing away. Planet after planet saw the tread of Ultramar's boot yet wherever they set foot the Marines would not stay long, as soon as the course of the war had been turned they would set off once more into the stars headed for the next crisis. The Ultramarines were everywhere in this dark time but the tide of horror was beyond comprehension and too many worlds needed salvation and their were not enough Space Marines to save them all. Guilliman responded in the most ruthless fashion, each world was assessed for its strategic value and those deemed unimportant were simply abandoned to their fate. Many cried out against the harsh callousness of this policy but the Primarch was resolute, the Space Marines were too valuable to waste garrisoning unimportant worlds. So great was the demand for their skills that the Astartes abandoned their auxiliary human regiments to fight on alone, pressing on from war zone to war zone with break neck speed. Even then the Ultramarines could not keep pace with the sheer scope of the calamity set before them and were forced to splinter further. From battalion strength they split down into mere chapters, then companies and finally in mere squads they sought to meet the enemy with fury and steel wherever they reared their foul heads.

It was not enough.

_+++Attrition+++_

_From the command centre came the sound of desperate men, cries for support and reinforcement met only by confusion and delirium. Officers scrambled from post to post trying to organise this mess but were overwhelmed by the tide set against them. In the centre of the riot stood an Astartes, clad in blue and gold his face stern and patrician, he was Captain Remus. At his side lay a mighty book, thick and well read but now closed and bound. He issued a constant stream of orders and seemed calm but inwardly he was seething. He had been sent here to relieve the besieged armies of the Imperium from the dog-soldiers of the Talestrians but had been given a mere Chapter to do it. A single Chapter, one thousand Space Marines against an armada of enemies, it was a farce how could any many hope to win with so few troops. However the worst thing was the book beside him and a small part of his mind wondered at the folly of it. He had been awed and humbled to receive the tomb from the Primarchs own hand, now he wished he had burned the damned thing. Following its teachings had seen his armies scattered across the continents, some units holding others falling back to useless positions. His artillery was stranded out of range, his assault units sitting in bunkers, his tactical squads falling back inch-by-inch. It was a pathetic charade of the wars the XIIIth had once fought, where was the glory? Where was the pride? This was not war it was a meat grinder. He dared to think the heretically and cursed his Primarch's folly, to think he believed he could anticipate every single situation. No man not even a Primarch could prepare a solution for every conceivable event on the battlefield. Dammit all to hell how was he supposed to fight a war from an accursed book!_

_Remus snarled and snatched up the offending tome about to throw it away but stopped mid gesture, for something had changed on the hololith. The swirling, scattered units were starting to pull together in a curious pattern. The rampaging Talestrians were now scattered across the continent, isolated and vulnerable. But the Ultramarines themselves were what drew his eye; previously falling back units were linking up with seemingly lost assets. Firebases and strong points had sprung up out of nowhere, while artillery and airbases were now in perfect position to rain down destruction. Remus saw assault assets in perfect alignment to crush the enemy and tactical support poised ready to fly. It was the single most breathtaking piece of strategic manoeuvre Remus had ever seen and he had absolute no idea how the Codex had done it. _

_He wasted not moment as he yelled strike orders save to marvel at the genius of his Primarch and think for a moment that perhaps there was yet hope._

**Holding the Line**

Had the situation continued, the Ultramarines would probably have been ground down to nothing through sheer attrition. Yet Guilliman was more than a simple warrior, he was a statesman and knew well the value of propaganda. Thus he turned to the one asset he knew was untouched, the Astropathic networks of the Imperium. These mystic savants could broadcast information across light years and still bound the crippled Imperium together. Guilliman ordered them to begin transmitting news of Ultramarine's victories to every world in the Imperium. This was the most callous of manipulations, the most desperate of holding actions were portrayed as stoic defences, every foe slain a triumph for mankind, every metre taken a key stepping stone on the road to victory. Constant missives of the Ultramarines actions were sent across the length and breath of the galaxy and slowly their place in the minds of men changed. From warrior giants they became legendary demi-gods, shining angels whose bright wings carried swift death to the enemies of man. As word spread of the Ultramarines victories the armies of man began to rally, men looked up from the ashes and saw one last chance at glory, one final ray of hope. Feuding regiments put aside their differences and stood shoulder to shoulder beneath the banners of Macragge. Retreating armies dung in their heels and held against impossible odds wherever the blue and gold arrived. And led by the sons of Ultramar mankind began fighting back against the doom overtaking them. Triumph followed triumph and soon the slightest rumour of an Ultramarines deployment was enough to change the course of whole wars. Veritable legions of routed men turning and charging back into hopelessly lost causes for now they could see the path to salvation, they could taste the victory. On Pergador the Mordians under General Contralis marched two million strong against the heretic hives seized by the K'nib. Two million men went in, on the day the last hive fell they numbered less than thirty thousand, General Contralis claimed it was his highest honour to have served the Emperor so well. At the battle of the Kauros graveyard crews of heretic ships mutinied against their cruel enslavers and seized control of the gun decks of the traitor battleship '_Unending agony'._ By the time their overlords had retaken the decks they had targeted and destroyed fifteen rebel frigates. The hole blown in their lines allowed Battlefleet Solar to bracket the fleet and obliterate the Traitors, the battleship's name proved a hollow boast as not one ship escaped. On the Kallidus plateau the Tallarns refused the order to withdraw and fought on for nineteen days and nights against the Orks without support or resupply. Their commander attributed their survival and eventual victory to the Emperor's benevolence that sustained his men better than food or water ever could.

_+++Vindication+++_

_Even at the conclusion of the Horus Heresy, when the arch-traitor lay dying high over Terra, the Night Lords continued to fight with unforgiving ferocity. They continued to raid the Imperium, all military strategy and careful planning discarded in favour of wanton murder and destruction. The hand of Night Haunter was still evident, but it was obvious his tactics had changed. Where they were once cold and calculating, the Night Lords now struck against over-whelming odds, their tactics betraying a self-destructive desperation. It is quite possible that Night Haunter was aware of the fact that Terra had finally issued the order for his life to be terminated by Imperial assassins. Fully half the shaping-shifting Callidus assassins were dispatched to locate and destroy the Primarch, hoping his death would disband the Night Lords forever and prove the perfect propaganda victory. _

_The last words of Night Haunter stand as one of the great enigmas of Imperial history. It is thought that the assassin M'Shen was consciously allowed to infiltrate Night Haunter's grotesque palace on the world Tsagualsa. This edifice was Night Haunter's ultimate testament, every brick made from ground bones and the mortar mixed with blood. Expecting to have to deal with numerous guards and loyal retainers, she was surprised to find the bone and flesh decorated halls completely deserted. The vid-log built into M'Shen's baroque gauntlets, later carefully edited and transmitted to every world in the Imperium, shows the final confrontation between the twisted Primarch and the avenging angel. The events are portrayed thus._

_Sitting in a pool of shadow upon a throne made from the fused bones of his victims, a carpet of still-screaming faces leading up to gnarled, naked feet, sits Night Haunter himself. His madness and hate radiate from him, palpable even through such a remote medium as a vid-log. M'Shen stops in her tracks when the fallen Primarch raises his head, her face reflected in the impassive, deep, black pools of his eyes. Long moments pass. Then the vid-log blurs for as M'Shen leaps forwards and the last image in the recording is of Night Haunter's severed head hitting the ground. His dark, staring eyes brimming with madness above a lipless smile of fulfilment before the recording inexplicably shorts out._

Through the most desperate and stubborn of defences the Imperium had managed to hold the line. The blood of millions of martyrs had bought humanity a desperate moment of respite; the moment was perfect for a new force to enter the fray.

**Jihad**

On Terra a new cult had arisen to dominance amongst the seething masses and insane demagogues, the Cult of the Saviour Emperor. This cult stood apart from the insanity for two reasons firstly a decorated and lauded soldier whom had fought on the walls of the Imperial Palace led it. Secondly it was supported by it's own Saint, Euphrati Keeler who had stood with Primarchs and Warmaster alike. Together they decreed the Emperor mourned the futile bloodshed of brother on brother and claimed that redemption could only be sought in battle against the alien and Traitors assailing humanity. The Emperor protects humanity they preached, but so too must humanity protect the Emperor and this destiny could only be found amid the fires of battle. Fired by rabid devotion and zealotry the mobs turned their rage outwards seeking any who defied the divine rule of the Emperor. Carried in the bulk holds of dilapidated cargo haulers and empty fuel transports billions upon billions of Imperial cultists spread from world to world. Everywhere they went the priests of this new religion preached to the people, swelling the masses of cultists beyond counting and seeking out the enemies of the Emperor.

_+++Purgation+++_

In the dark smoky gloom of the office was a sigh, it was a sad forlorn sound born from a man of middle age, uniform crisped to perfection and gleaming with general's rank pins. He sighed again and poured a glass of amasec, the dark liquid peaty and aromatic enough to hide the sent of smoke swirling everywhere. Finally he squared his shoulders and faced his adjutant saying, "Well Toran, lets have it then".

_The young man barely had any stubble on his chin and he shifted awkwardly in his newly issued boots, so new and shiny they still squeaked when he moved. He looked at the data slate in his hand and began reading off the casualty lists displayed; it took a considerable amount of time. As the list went on and on General Lorrall turned and gazed out the porthole of his command Leviathan towards the devastation beyond. Crumbling towers still fumed into the grey dawn and heaped around their bases were heaped piles of the dead. Mighty grey bastions soared above only to be brutally truncated and torn asunder as the ruins of men and machines burned around their foundations. Lorrall gazed at his reflection superimposed on the wasteland outside and saw a man whose hair and moustache were touched by wisps of grey yet his spine was straight and his physique still held tense muscle. His chest was festooned with medals, he claimed to wear them to remind the men of the glory days of the Emperor's Crusade but now among these ruins he wondered why he had ever bothered. Thirteen decades he had campaigned in the Legions of Terra and in less than two it had all been rendered meaningless, sometimes he wished he had died in the glory days rather than live in this grey shadowy existence. He was just a caretaker now, tidying away the last remnants of humanities grandest endeavour, it had been a dream and like all dreams it had ended too abruptly. Lorrall was shaken from his self-pitying reverie by his adjutant's last statement._

"_Say that again" he said._

_Ensign Toran looked up, and said, "There is an emissary here, he wants to talk to you it seems the militia wants access to the prisoner camps"_

_General Lorrall grimaced, there it was, somebody had to say it sooner or later… the militia. "Damned fanatics", he cried, "Bad enough they had to stick their noses into this war, now they want to massacre civilians."_

_Toran looked shamed faced and could not tear his eyes off his squeaky boots, but he managed to mutter, "They did prove useful"_

_Lorrall threw his glass hard against the nalwood panels of his office so hard it shattered and sent amasec across the wall as he snarled, "Of course they bloody well did; we couldn't possibly have managed without them." He began to pace back and forth as he ranted, "How else did those bureaucrats back on Terra expect us to take this world, for feths sake we were fighting sodding Astates here. Two years we butchered ourselves on their ramparts and got nothing except mountains of slain soldiers and all they ever did was send ever more ridiculous demands for advancement. I requested Titans and Macro cannons, they sent me lasguns, lasguns against the bloody IVth Legion, its such a bad joke its not even funny." Toran cowered back as the tirade continued, "And these fanatics pouring out of every troop ship, they're almost as bad as the enemy. They come out of nowhere and demand to replace us at the front lines as if our efforts had been meaningless, our bloodshed here somehow unworthy. Madmen and zealots the lot of them I only let them through because I didn't have enough barracks to house the torrent pouring in. At least the enemy acts with some shred of sense, but these cultists are just insane, no matter how many the traitors massacred they just kept going. No worse than that the more of them got slaughtered the more rabid the next wave became! They just kept piling on the bodies until they reached high enough that they simply could walk onto the ramparts. Even the IVth didn't have enough bolt shells to hold them all back, if they hadn't escaped through some damned warp gate they'd probably have just drowned under the weight of the dead."_

_He was cut off mid rant, as his office door slammed open, silhouetted against the bright light was a bearded man, towering and looming over the pair of officers. His face was high and long like some equine beast, his wet sneering mouth full of pointed teeth filed into sharp jagged stumps. He was swathed in orange robes embroided with scenes of figures twisted in paroxysm of joy and pain as bright flames consumed them and atop his head was a burning brazier. Constant flames leapt and danced from his head heating metal rods that clamped down on his skull turning the skin blistered and charred where they touched. He looked down at the frozen pair and hissed "General… at last"_

_Lorrall looked up in fear at the man looming over him but would be damned before he would show it, "You.. you can't come in here Helboran," he stammered._

_The man's lips peeled back in a parody of a smile as he said, "I go where the Emperor wills you should know that. The heretics could not hold against His Will did you really think a god's emissary could be thwarted by a door… or a jail"_

"_We've been over this" Lorrall said furiously, "Those prisoners are civilians, non-combatants, Light of Terra I will not let you burn innocents at the stake, it spits in the face of everything the Imperial Truth stand for."_

_Helboran fixed his opponent with piercing eyes, "Innocents?" he questioned, "You dare protect heretics and blasphemours, those scum bowed down to the unholy and the daemonic. They gave succour to the enemies of the God-Emperor and sipped from the chalice of wickedness. Any who stand with His enemies are judged and found wanting in His sight… General"_

_Lorrall ignore the obvious threat and rallied back "Thrones sake! They were living under the boot heel of Astartes what else were they supposed to do, bleed at them?"_

_Helboran twitched his mouth and his eyes took on a distant glazed aspect as he quoted "Is it not written that the blood of Martyrs is the Seed of the Imperium"._

_The two men locked eyes and for the first time Lorrall saw the fires burning in the depths of Helboran's gaze. For a long moment the two stood silent something ethereal passing between them. Then General Lorrall broke his gaze away and sat down hard on his leather chair, "Tell the guards to stand down", he whispered._

"_Sir?" stammered the almost forgotten Toran._

"_You heard me," muttered Lorrall, "Tell the guards to let the militia into the prisoner camps, tell them just to walk away."_

_Helboran rose back to his full height and his leer split wide across his face, without even waiting for confirmation he turned and stalked out of the office. _

_Toran clutched his data slate to his chest and said, "That look in his eye, it was so barbaric, so savage, it was pure madness."_

"_No" sighed Lorrall shaking his head sadly, "No it was the future" he said and turned back to his amasec determined to get drunk._

With faith and fury the Jihad swept across the stars their vengeance on those who stood aside from the fighting even worse than the fate of the enemies themselves. The madness swept across world after world, in every city or hive liberated they would embrace those who were loyal and burn those who were deemed disloyal. Wherever the cultists set foot men would not dare show anything less than total commitment to the Emperor's cause. Every man was desperate to prove his loyalty, not even the most corrupt dared whisper against the rule of Terra for fear their neighbour would inform the cultists. Manufactories gifted weapons and vehicles to the cult as signs of good faith, public parks and private warehouses given over as barracks space. Even the richest and most pampered of nobles opened their coffers to fund the Imperial faith, desperate to keep the braying mobs from their doors. With funds and soldiers beyond count the Imperial cultists threw back the enemies of man, ordinary men and women charging into battle heedless of danger or death. The death toll was beyond reckoning yet the more blood shed the more the cultists praised the Emperors name and prepared themselves for martyrdom. The mobs worst fury was reserved for the fleeing traitor legions, seeking vengeance for their crimes against the divine Emperor. Even the Chaos Marines struggled to hold against the tidal wave of zealotry unleashed against them, the masses seeking to bury them in bodies. Eventually they had no choice but to retreat into the Eye of Terror and brood bitterly on the fate they had chosen for themselves. For his part the Traitor Primarch Lorgar was stunned, the new faith was everything he had ever dreamed of creating, the power of belief was truly unleashed yet he found himself on the wrong end of their Jihad. For the first time he understood his betrayed father's warnings about the perils of setting up gods to serve ones own ends. Twice he had placed in his faith in divinity and twice it had proven too weak to accomplish his goals. Filled with bitterness and resentment he resolved to spite his new deities and take his own life, but the gods of Chaos are cruel and capricious. Even as the blade found purchase in his hearts they poured their power into his mind and soul, cursing him with immortality. Filled with the potency of the warp the new daemon prince screamed his despair, he was now doomed to spend eternity watching the two faiths he had birthed wage endless war upon each other. In scorn he retreated to Sicarius and sealed himself into a towering basilica to brood on his god's failures.

**The New Order**

The heartlands of the Imperium had been secured and a brief respite bought to weigh the costs of war. The tragedy was immense, no census could even begin to count the number of dead and not one world had escaped the carnage. Determined to rebuild what had been lost Roboute Guilliman returned to Terra and was hailed as a conquering hero. The masses greeted him with jubilation and worship, rioters in every hive demanded that he be declared Imperial Regent. However Roboute Guilliman refused any such honour, he addressed the masses and declared, "_Too much power has been granted to too few men. No man, not even a Primarch, can be entrusted with such authority ever again_". Guilliman was true to his word and summoned a great council to Terra, formed from the greatest mortal generals and richest princes and manufacturers. He included the heads of every imperial institution from the Astropaths to the Mechanicus: they were the first High Lords of Terra.

The new High Lords approved and endorsed Guilliman's policy of decentralising power, splitting the Imperium into five Segmentums: Solar, Tempestus, Obscura, Pacificus and Ultima. Furthermore they split the Army into two, the Imperial Guard and the Navy, no traitorous General could now move his armies and no admiral could garrison worlds for his own use. Every Imperial institution had its role redefined and merchant princes and Rogue Traders were forced to comply with Imperial regulations to better curtail their independence. Critical to this policy was the raising up of the new Imperial Inquisition to positions of unquestionable authority and influence. Even the most vaunted positions of power could not now avoid their penetrating gaze.

Yet the most shocking and controversial decree of all was the High Lords ratification of Guilliman's boldest proposal: the Astartes Legions were to be disbanded! A new Adeptus Astartes was to be created, formed out of the old Legions these new forces were to be organised into independent Chapters, henceforth no single Space Marine Commander would lead more than a thousand Astartes in battle.

This finally proved to be too controversial a demand for the other Primarchs to tolerate, even they could not ignore this blow against their Legions thus they were finally forced to break off their headlong pursuit of the renegades. The Primarchs had been obsessed with hunting down and punishing the Traitors and had been oblivious to the changing times behind their lines. Returning to Terra they were greeted with scorn and derision, used to the adulation of the masses they could not understand why humanity no longer trusted them. The Primarchs were called to account and summoned to attend the will of the Emperor but they refused, the power they wielded still eclipsed the fragile Imperium and another war could only lead to ruin. When the Imperial Fists cruiser, _Terrible Angel, _came under fire from the new Imperial Navy it seemed a new civil war was inevitable. In desperation Rogal Dorn personally met the High Lords in the Imperial Palace in a final attempt to avert the tragedy and the fate of the Imperium hung in the balance.

Dorn marched into council chamber, an avataristic vision of perfection, his golden armour gleaming and dabbed with perfect tears of ash to mark his grief. He looked upon the gathered, cowled figures with disdain but it was to the giant who stood before them that he spoke, "_How could you do this to us Roboute, have we not suffered enough?_"

Guilliman crossed his mighty arms, his warplate the blue of Macragge's oceans and edged with mother of pearl as white as the swept locks on his brow. "_Brother the galaxy has changed, our age is past. This is the Imperium of Man, not the Empire of the Astartes, the time has come for men to lead, mortal men who know humility and whose ambitions are not so perilous._"

Dorn's hands twitched fractionally towards the gloriously engraved bolt pistol holstered on his thigh, but he stilled the motion as he snarled, "_Father entrusted us to build his vision, it is our duty to guard humanity. Only we have the strength to take back what was ours, only we have the vision to rebuild what once was! Is that why you sell us out, because our vision of glory surpasses yours?_"

Roboute was stoic in his reply, "_Rogal this is not about glory this is pure necessity, it is humanity's need that drives us to do this_"

"_Need?" _snarled Dorn, "_What need drives you to act like a whipped dog? You let them pull your teeth! You would sell us all into slavery, we were created to lead humanity into glory not lick its boots. These quill pushers and counting clerks you set above us should be grovelling before us._"

Guilliman next words would prove to have tragic consequences

"_You sound like Horus_"

Dorn leapt forward "_You dare!_" he roared, "_Where were you when the Traitors beat upon the walls of this very palace? Where were you when we chased them across the stars? You hid amongst your precious five hundred worlds, you stand in cowardice and dare to judge us, you who knew the Emperor's vision for the future as well as any of us._"

Guilliman stood firm against this tirade and spoke gravely, "_The Emperor we knew is gone; we must serve the Emperor who is._"

"_We can still put it back!"_ cried Dorn, "_We can put it all back_ _the way it was!_"

Guilliman shook his patrician head and said, "_It is too late brother; the decision has been made_"

Dorn snarled, "_You have no authority over my Legion and I will prove our worth in battle! Even now one of the Traitors lurks in the Sebastus system, I shall personally dig him out and when I bring Perturabo back in an Iron Cage you will see I am right_"

With these words the golden Primarch turned his back on the council and marched once more to war.

The Iron Cage

During the long flight from Terra the Traitor Primarch Perturabo had led his Iron Warriors to the world of Sebastus IV and set about building a mighty series of fortresses he called the 'Iron Cage'. Rogal Dorn was incensed by this outrage; the Traitors had lost their war yet here they were flying their flag on an imperial world as if they had some right to be there. Here was an opportunity to prove the worth of the old Legions, with this victory he would humiliate Guilliman and drive him back to his precious Ultramar in shame. Rogal Dorn expected honourable battle but that was not Perturabo's agenda at all. The Iron Cage was a sophisticated trap, at its centre was a great keep sitting in the middle of twenty square miles of bunkers, minefields razor wire, trenches, tank traps and redoubts. Radiating out from the keep in the shape of an eight-pointed star were underground tunnels that connected the surface fortifications. All entrances to the underground network were concealed and the keep itself was a decoy of no real value. Most fortifications are limited by the need to protect something, but the Iron Cage was twenty square miles of killing ground.

Perturabo and the Iron Warriors waited below the surface for the first shots of the Imperial Fists orbital barrage. As soon as it commenced they replied with a number of remote weapons silos located well away from the Fortress. The Imperial Fists reacted in a predictable manner, by launching a full combat drop against the silos. As soon as they entered the atmosphere the missile stockpiles were detonated, throwing millions of tons of debris into the atmosphere. Day turned to deepest night and the troops on the ground were completely cut off from communicating with their fleet in orbit.

The detonation was the signal for the Iron Warriors to attack. The Traitor fleet was no stronger than that of the Imperial Fists but the loyalists' Stormbirds and Thunderhawks were on the planet's surface. The Imperial Fists fleet tried to hold, but were forced inexorably out of position. After a few hours the only targets being engaged on the planet were co-ordinates pre-planned by Perturabo.

Under fire from space, the Imperial Fists proceeded with their assault in parade formation, on a four-chapter front. Perturabo watched from an observation tower and carefully began to destroy them. First the minefields did their work then, when the Imperial Fists reached the first expanse of fortifications the Iron Warriors manned their trenches and opened fire. While the trenches held the loyalists attention, squads of Iron Warriors with melta bombs emerged from hidden bunkers and attacked the tanks halted by the fortifications. The Imperial Fists turned back to fend off this threat and for a time were pinned down amidst the tank traps. Once more they rallied and swept forward to overrun the Iron Warriors trenches only to find them empty. So it continued, Perturabo dissected the Imperial Fists company-by-company, squad-by-squad.

Rogal Dorn simply could not accept how badly outclassed he was in this theatre; convinced that victory was in sight he pushed his men on. Perturabo pulled back some of his defenders and called upon others to hold, a stratagem that fractured the Imperial Fists, first into companies, then into squads. By day six of the battle each marine fought virtually alone, Dorn's troops were reduced to burrowing into the mud and piling up the dead bodies of their brethren for cover. Still Perturabo remained patient, he allowed Dorn to rampage around the trenches calling his name and demanding personal combat. Perturabo had no intention of doing something so stupid; he knew that the sight of their Primarch's impotence would demoralise the Imperial Fists more than he ever could. The siege of the Iron Cage was to last for three more weeks. The Imperial Fists had burrowed into the killing zone and were unable to escape. Although his captains called for a breakout, Rogal Dorn would not give the order. He refused to believe the evidence of his eyes and continued to give orders that made no sense and commands to men who were now long dead. Above all he could not admit that he had made a mistake, that Guilliman had been right and he wrong. Unable to abandon their Primarch the Imperial Fists prepared to die with him.

If Perturabo had one failing it was that he had grown to enjoy tormenting his enemies too much. He could have finished off the Imperial Fists at any time but chose not to. Fortunately for Rogal Dorn, Roboute Gulliman put the Imperium before pride and brought his Ultramarines to the rescue. Leading a dozen of his new Chapters to battle, Gulliman forced the Iron Warriors back while their Thunderhawks and Stormbirds plunged through the dust clouds to evacuate the Imperial Fists. Perturabo had no desire to fight these fresh warriors and concentrated on preventing the Imperial Fists evacuating their dead and wounded. Rogal Dorn refused to abandon the battlefield and Roboute Gulliman had to physically subdue him and carry him onto the last Stormbird to leave the planet.

Rogal Dorn was a shattered man; his failure ensured that the reforms of Gulliman went through unopposed. The Imperial Fists had left half of their Legion at the Iron Cage and every refugee carried horrific wounds. Dorn was humiliated and forced to watch as his crippled Legion was split down into four new Chapters, each able to summon barely half the requisite number of troops. With the support of Dorn gone the other Primarchs had no choice but to capitulate, their Legions broken down and scattered. It was nineteen years before Rogal Dorn could find the spirit to go to war once more and he was forever driven by his disgrace into acts of reckless abandon.

Perturabo for his part gathered the gene-seed of the fallen and sacrificed it to the Dark Gods, and they rewarded him buy elevating him to become a Daemon Prince. One insult had been avenged and since then the Iron Warriors have lived only to settle accounts with the corpse on the Golden Throne.

Age of the Imperium

With the Legions broken and the Traitors driven into the hell of the Eye of Terror the rule of the Imperium passed into the hands of lesser men. They fought an endless tide of darkness and horror; indeed sometimes the danger was as great as that during the height of the heresy. Yet through sacrifice and faith the realm of man endured and as decades turned into centuries then millennia it eventually found some form of stability. The new faith was enshrined, as part of Imperial culture and in time would rise to become the unquestionable orthodoxy of the entire Imperium. The Space Marines were scattered across the stars, their new Chapters fighting an endless parade of enemies. Yet under the guidance of the Codex Astartes they knew only victory, proving the wisdom of Guilliman's vision. The other Primarchs were forced to accept lesser roles in the destiny of mankind, one by one falling to death or simply lost. The last of them to die was Rogal Dorn his last act one of redemption as he gave his life to thwart an entire Black Crusade.

Guilliman himself continued to lead the Ultramarines for the next hundred years until he and his warriors fought against the Traitor Primarch Fulgrim and his blasphemous Emperor's Children. Fulgrim had been changed beyond all recognition, the noble man he once he had been, was gone and now Chaos had corrupted him utterly. His serpentine body was multi-armed and each taloned fist carried an envenomed rapier. Billowing clouds of heady musk enveloped the Primarchs as they met in single combat on the red fields of Thessala. None who were present can say for certain what happened that day, yet when the cloying musk's cleared the Emperor's Children were slain and Roboute Guilliman lay unmoving, his throat gashed open. Not even a Primarch's physique could stop the spread of Fulgrim's poison and as their Primarch lay dying the apothecaries set up a stasis field to hold him from death's clutches until a cure could be found. Of Fulgrim's body there was no sign. Guilliman was carried back to Macragge where he was set upon a marble throne in the Temple of Correction, still held in his stasis field, surrounded by the names of dead Ultramarines. The Temple became a place of great pilgrimage for the pious and many journeyed to Ultramar to pay homage to the Emperor's own son and draw inspiration from his noble visage. It is said that the Primarchs gaze still held the power to pierce the hearts of men, and many stories tell that Guilliman's wounds are slowly healing. Though this is clearly impossible within the time-locked bubble of a stasis field many still believe such tales and await the day when Roboute Guilliman will be fully recovered.

He would be forever remembered as the greatest Primarch of their tragic brotherhood, the saviour of humanity and the humblest hero to have ever lived.


End file.
